Not Like Her
by Silverwind24
Summary: Five years after Satine's death, Christian lives a lonely, empty life as a writer of plays about betrayal and death, with no mention of that thing called love. Will a new commission by an old employer change his view of the world and perhaps of love?
1. How the Story Should Have Ended

Chapter 1: How the Story Should Have Ended

The other tenants of the building murmured among themselves regarding the strange, melancholy man that rented the apartment on the fourth floor. From what the tenants could observe in the few times that they had seen the man, he was quite young, not yet thirty, and seemed to be alone in the world. He stood apart from the other single men in Paris in that no one entered his apartment save him; no friends, no coworkers, no women designed to combat the loneliness that seemed to consume him. He came and went quietly, infrequently, and always at night.

One night, at about 9 o'clock, the little boy who lived with his mother and sister two doors down from the mysterious man sat in the passageway, bouncing a ball against the wall. He caught his ball tightly in his hand when he heard the rattling of the man's door, followed by the appearance of the man. He was dressed in a long, somewhat worn, black coat, and his head was covered by a hat. He locked the door behind him and turned, about to walk past the boy.

"Monsieur!"

The young man stopped, as if startled by the sound. Seeing that there was nothing to do but respond, he replied, "Yes?" in a voice that seemed as if it had long been unused.

"What is your name?" the boy asked, staring up at the man with wide blue eyes, shining in their innocence and youth.

The man laughed, a dry, weary chuckle. "Christian. My name is Christian. And yours?"

"It's Jean-Pierre. What do you do, Monsieur Christian?" the boy asked, proud of himself for his use of the formal address.

Christian looked down at the small boy and replied, "I am a writer."

"What do you write? Newspapers? Poems?"

"I write tragedies," he said, with a note of finality in his voice. The child looked at him with question but he couldn't bear to elaborate. The boy was no older than six years old. Let him believe that there were still fairytales in the world.

"Bon nuit, Jean-Pierre," Christian said, almost kindly, and walked past the boy, down the stairs, and out into the night.

Christian walked alone through the streets of his neighborhood, a less-than-safe prospect for a man who cared even a little about self-preservation. Nevertheless, Christian remained untouched, as if the vagrants and thieves who roamed Paris knew that the young man had nothing worth taking. He moved carelessly, walking slowly, with no concern for the things that went on around him. He stopped when he reached the local bar, a shady establishment that comforted Christian nonetheless.

"Christian!" the bartender exclaimed when the young man entered the bar and sat down on a stool at the counter.

"Raoul," Christian acknowledged him, removing his hat and placing it beside him.

"What'll it be tonight?" the large, gregarious bartender asked, getting a glass ready for his customer.

"An absinthe, tonight, please." Christian said, with a touch of weariness.

"Writer's block again?" Raoul asked as he prepared the drink.

"But of course," Christian assented with a smile.

"You know, Christian, there is more to life than writing and drinking. There are hundreds of girls in this city who would be glad to keep you company for a night- for a price of course," the bartenders suggested, placing the drink in front of the young man.

"No," Christian said, pain ringing out in his voice, and he had to suddenly clutch at his glass to keep his composure.

"Just a suggestion, mon ami," Raoul defended himself, lifting his hands apologetically. Christian nodded, taking a generous sip of the absinthe. Raoul, as a bartender, could never take a hint. "Tell me, Christian, what made you this way?" Christian looked at him blankly.

"Do you really want to know?" the young man asked quietly, glancing at his hands.

"I have all night."

Christian began to speak, his voice steadying and growing in conviction and strength. "Five years ago I came to this city as a young and naïve man. I was in search of employment, adventure, and most of all, love. I found these things, and the greatest love I could have ever known. She was beautiful, but the word does her no justice, and can't possibly convey her grace, poise, confidence, and the joy behind her genuine smile. We met quite by accident, a misunderstanding if you will, but something undeniable and electric formed between us, and I was able to convince a woman who made her living by deceiving men to think that she loved them to believe in real, true love. Romantic, no?" He paused to take another sip of his drink, and for once, Raoul did not speak.

"We engaged in an unlikely affair, but I truly loved her, and I know that she loved me. We had to hide our love from her employer and mine, but for once in her life, she was worth something to someone, and she became my whole world. For the first time, she wasn't pretending. Maybe we were too happy. I grew jealous, how could I not? How could I allow a man to look at her, touch her, in lust, when I did the same and was so much in love? We fought, and she left to save me, but I didn't know. What a love story. There was a touching, heart-wrenching scene of reunion, and then, we should have ridden off into the sunset together."

Suddenly, Christian slammed his fist down on the table and raised his voice, startling the bartender and causing heads to turn. "That's how the story should have ended!" His voice echoed in the silence of the bar, and the young man drew in a ragged, painful breath. His hand shook as he raised the glass to his lips, and his eyes shone in the dim light. Raoul waited for him to speak, not daring to interrupt. After several minutes of silence, Christian began again, not raising his eyes from the glass. "She was sick. I never even knew. I thought nothing of her coughing, just tiredness, or some dust in the air. She didn't know how bad it was, how little time we had. She died in my arms." A sob slipped out of his lips, tears falling unchecked down his cheeks. "She begged me to go on, to tell our story. But after knowing what it's like to no longer be alone, to live for someone else- I don't think she really knew this thing she asked me to do." Christian was silent again, his shoulders trembling slightly in the aftermath of his sobs. It became clear that there was nothing more to be said and in his silence Raoul saw the past five years of Christian's life flash before his eyes, and he pitied him. What a shame that such an earnest, passionate young man was left like this, a mere shell of his former self.

"Here, mon ami. Another absinthe, on me." And that was all that the bartender, the only semblance of a friend that Christian had, could offer him. Christian wordlessly finished his drink and departed, nodding to Raoul as he left. He returned to his barely furnished apartment and sat down to write a play about betrayal and death, with no mention of that thing called love.

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_A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review as it definitely encourages me to continue! I appreciate any kind of reviews, especially constructive ones. Tell me what I did right and what I did wrong! Thanks _


	2. The Lies of Theater

Chapter 2: The Lies of Theater

Paris was a city that never slept, but sunrise the following morning found the city as silent and calm as ever, and the first rays of sunlight fell uninterrupted on the cobblestone roads and sidewalks. Light crept gradually and gently through curtains and windows, even those tightly shut like those in the apartment of the young writer. The sudden intrusion of day break on the writer caused him to stir and groan from where he lay slumped over his typewriter. He opened his eyes slowly and squinted at the sheets of paper that lay before him. After returning from the bar he had written the second act of his latest play and started on the third before sleep finally claimed him. Glancing over what he had written, he realized that he had been more affected by the absinthe than he had thought, and crumbled up the pages and let them fall to join his other discarded scenes on the floor of the apartment. He retired to his bed in frustration, laying on his back and wincing against the ache that was starting to pound in his head. He heard the first of the early morning fruit-sellers begin their rounds and sighed, stuffing his head under his pillow to catch some much needed sleep.

When the writer woke next, the position of the sun in the sky revealed that it was early afternoon, and he could hear the bustle of activity that occurred outside of his window, and the voices of children at play almost made him smile. Almost. He forced himself to get out of bed and looked to see if he had anything edible in the apartment. Too much absinthe always made him hungry. It had the same effect on her, once. He continued rummaging through his cabinets with a pained look on his face. Even damned hangovers reminded him of her. He found half of a loaf of bread that was only partly stale and sat on the counter, for lack of chairs in the kitchen, ripping off pieces of the bread and eating them slowly. He reflected for a moment on the glamorous, bohemian life that he lived and nearly smiled again, this time in irony.

The bread was gone soon enough, and Christian returned to his desk, picking up his pen and twirling it uselessly in between his fingers. He weighed his options for the day. He could sit and write, which would have been ideal, except the words simply would not come. He had to write if he wanted to live, and maybe, just maybe, he did not want to live badly enough. When writing was impossible, he slept, but sleep meant dreams, and dreams always ended, leaving him with thoughts of her that plagued his mind and made surviving so much harder. Rather than sleeping, he tried to write, something, anything, and often the day ended with only short poems unworthy of publication, usually describing a detail of her that he missed more than he realized until the poem had been written.

Christian's melancholy and self-pitying train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a knock on the door of the apartment. He was startled and did not move, but looked at the door. He knew that he had paid his rent, and was at a loss at who would possibly come to find him. He knew next to no one in Paris, and he had made sure that those he did know would not be able to find him. The knocking grew more persistent, and instead of ignoring the incessant pounding, curiosity got the best of him and he rose to his feet and opened the door.

His eyes rose in surprise and distaste as a man he had not seen in quite some time shoved his way into the apartment and shut the door behind him. Christian was so shocked that he did not speak or move, but after he recovered his voice, he swung the door back open forcefully and said, his voice low and threatening, "Get out, Zidler." The tall, brazen man turned around with a flourish, and looked as if he were about to force a lighthearted laugh, but his exaggerated grin faded when he saw the poisonous look on Christian's face.

"I've come to talk business," he said flatly, his feet planted where he was in the middle of the room.

"I don't want your work," Christian said, his hand holding the door open.

"You need it," Zidler replied, and glanced around the apartment. "You're living like an animal, and from the looks of you, you're starving yourself. You have great talent and you're letting it slip away."

"Perhaps I once had great talent, yes, but I do not do the work I used to. I write tragedies now," he said, and tragedy was written all over his face.

"Christian, she wouldn't have wanted this. You know it. All I'm asking is that you consider this commission. It's not for me. I'm merely an agent now, a manager. It's for the opening show of a new theater. It will not be another _Spectacular, Spectacular_. The owner is a young man, rich, and in pursuit of the bohemian ideals. He wants something multi-faceted, a musical, but with both heart, depth, and pain. I don't know another man that could write such a show."

"My life has had both heart, depth, and pain, and it would not make a show that many people would enjoy watching. Because it's the truth and theater is nothing but a lie!"

"It all doesn't have to be a lie, Christian! _Spectacular, Spectacular_ wasn't! The courtesan chose the sitar player. She chose you! Perhaps the happy ending was much more short-lived than any of us would have wanted, but it was happy, and so were you. For a brief moment you were both happy together; it's the truth and you know it. Snap out of it, Christian, leave this apartment, leave these tragedies, and look to the future!" Zidler grew increasingly impassioned as he spoke, waving his arms, his face flushing, sweat collecting on his brow.

Christian turned away and walked the length of the room, his eyes cast downward, thinking. He looked up at the man, studying him, trying to see if the years had changed him as well. He had cared about Satine, somehow, but he had cared about the money she made him more than her well-being and happiness. He looked older now and somehow more honest, but Christian could not and would not forget the lies he had told and the pain he had caused. Satine's death had been inevitable, but Zidler had not been honest with either of them, and her best interests had not been in his heart.

"Why should I listen to you? All you cared about back then was money and business. Have you changed at all?" Christian asked.

"You were once hopeful and bright, now you are dark and depressed. Is that not proof enough that a man can become the opposite of what he once was?"

"That doesn't answer my question."

"You're still sharp, at any rate," Zidler replied, smiling. "There's more to me than profits and success, it's true. I'm married now and my wife is expecting our first child in half a year's time." His face softened, to Christian's surprise. "Being somewhat of an honest man has changed many of my perspectives. But," he paused and his smile widened to a grin, "I still know a great deal about what makes a good show. And I think that the success of this endeavor would be quite appropriate. That is, if we have a writer who is good enough." He stopped and it became quite clear that he was waiting for Christian's reply.

"When is the show set to debut?" Christian asked after a lengthy silence.

"If all goes well, the owner and I hope to open the show and the theater consecutively, in about nine months."

Christian's eyes widened. "Very ambitious of you."

"I know you can write a show that quickly. And with your musical direction, the actors can learn the pieces and perform the impeccably by opening night."

"I haven't written anything remotely 'happy' in five years," Christian said quietly.

"I think you will find a change in subject somewhat refreshing," Zidler shot back after a beat, almost prompting Christian to smile.

"Where will you find your actors?" He asked, trying not to sound too interested.

"We have somewhat of an ensemble assembled. A few old faces from the Moulin Rouge, though many new ones too. Theater is changing. It's not just a bohemian thing anymore. And we have our star. She's very different, you'll find." Zidler's voice took on a gentler tone when he spoke about the alleged "star," and Christian raised his eyebrow in question.

"You'll meet her soon. I believe she will prove to be quite inspirational."

"No," Christian said flatly, his fists curling into tight angry balls at his side. "I won't do this. You think you can lure me in with the promise of a whore to love me, but it won't work. It's not how it was! Can no one understand? The only person who understands is gone and she's never coming back. All I ask is to be left alone and still you find me and make a mockery of me, proving by your very words that you are so far from understanding. Get out of here Zidler, get the hell out." His voice rose to a yell and gradually decreased in volume, until his last command was more of an animalistic growl than the demand of a man.

"Christian, that's not what I meant! You're taking this too far, I'm not mocking you, I merely want to convince you that this show will be different than any other," Zidler protested as Christian forcibly removed him from the apartment. "She's a young girl, a legitimate actress, she deserves a writer like you! She's not like her, Christian!" He continued shouting once he stood in the hallway, the closed door separating him from Christian.

Christian locked the door, as if that action could prevent Zidler's words from penetrating into his brain. He was interested now and he hated that, he hated the fact that he considered, even for a second, becoming part of this production. He felt so physically sick that he thrust his head out the open window and took a deep breath of fresh air. The thought occurred to him that getting out of the apartment and working with other people could be like this breath of air, and then he shook his head to clear the thought. He couldn't perpetuate the endless lies of the theater. His plays were painfully truthful, and that was why they were hardly bought or performed. Those that were performed were attended and appreciated by only a handful of people. He slammed his hand against the window sill. He would continue to write his failures of plays and probably starve. He had once been willing to starve for the sake of love, and now he would do so for the sake of truth. That belief would have to be enough to live for, until death finally claimed him.

Christian found that death was undiscriminating and unforgiving. It could stay away from the very old seemingly mysteriously, but take a newborn babe seconds after its first breath. It could steal away a young woman, in the prime of her life, before she had the chance to experience true, liberating happiness. It could refuse to accept a wretched, broken man and render every day a living hell, simply by the fact that the man was still living. That was the way of life, death, and the world. There weren't enough plays written about the painful fact of living. Feeling refreshed and relatively inspired, Christian sat down at his desk and began another play that he would not finish, this time about the irony of a man who wished for death but instead received eternal life.


	3. A Bit of Honesty

Chapter 3: A Bit of Honesty

A week after his meeting with Zidler, Christian's curiosity had gotten the best of him. His former employer had slipped a date and address under the door of the apartment after being forcibly removed from Christian's presence. Christian convinced himself that merely walking past the theater would do no harm, and certainly would not lead to him being hired. Still, Christian tried not to think too much as he combed his hair more meticulously than usual and shaved for the first time in weeks.

Every step that Christian took towards the theater simultaneously pained and revolted him, and gritting his teeth and biting his lip did not quite suppress his desire to turn and run. It would be so simple just to go back to the apartment, he reasoned, but at the same time, something was prodding him onward. Everyone expected him to continue to be a depressed failure, so Zidler would not be surprised if Christian never accepted the invitation. Entering the building and following through with the idealist's project would be the greatest surprise.

He observed the theater from outside, noting that it was larger than the average Parisian theater, clearly newly constructed, and with a modern design. He recognized that there was a good deal of money backing this project, and receiving a paycheck and future commissions from accepting this job could skyrocket his career. However, Christian had turned down commissions for musical productions before. The invitations had flowed in after _Spectacular, Spectacular_, and he had declined them all. Why should this be any different? Zidler had made it sound different, but he was a notorious liar. Unsure of what to do, Christian continued to convince himself that no harm would come from merely standing in the lobby of the theater, so he went inside, clutching his notebook to his chest as if it could shield him from whatever lay ahead.

Immediately after he stepped into the lobby, Christian heard Zidler's voice calling his name cheerfully. He cringed but turned towards the sound, raising his hand in a half-hearted greeting. "I knew you would come!" Zidler exclaimed, firmly grabbing Christian's arm and leading him towards an office.

"Where are you taking me?" Christian hissed, not wanting to draw further attention to himself. The men that had been mopping the marble floor of the lobby had stopped and were watching him, as was a group of well-dressed men and women who stood chatting nearby.

"To meet le Patron, bien sur!"

"I haven't agreed to anything, Zidler," Christian objected.

"Neither has he. He's already rejected three writers today! What makes you so confident?" Zidler replied with a wink, before knocking three times on the closed door. He swung the door open and Christian barely had enough time to straighten his collar. A man was sitting at a large wooden desk, pouring over stacks of papers. The office was large and well-furnished, but not the typical office of a rich man due to the modern artwork that adorned the walls and the shelves that were packed with books. Christian hadn't even been introduced to this man yet and he was already impressed.

"Christian, this is Monsieur Claude L'Etoile," Zidler said in introduction.

"Enchante," said Monsieur L'Etoile, rising to shake Christian's hand, to which Christian nodded and murmured the same. He raised his eyes to quickly size up the noble patron, and he saw a young, earnest man, with an open, honest face and an excited expression. Christian guessed that he had stumbled into his wealth but most likely had never gone hungry or known any sort of strife. This L'Etoile was just the man he used to be.

"Come, shall we sit down and talk business for a moment," Zidler commanded, while still managing to make it sound like a suggestion. Christian could see that resistance was futile, so he sat down in a chair facing L'Etoile's desk, and Zidler sat beside him.

"So, you are a writer of some repute," L'Etoile began, more as a statement than a question.

"Some would say so," Christian replied, knowing that it was true. _Spectacular, Spectacular_ had stirred up a fuss and demands had been made for further performances, which the death of the star and Christian's refusal to participate had rendered impossible.

"I have heard many things about your first production which incline me to hire you for my current project," the young man began. "I have also seen your recent plays performed and I have found them to be quite different from the reviews of your musical that I have heard." Christian instantly assumed that he would no longer be considered for this project due to his recent depressing, macabre, and morbid works.

"And for these reasons, I am disposed to believe that you will be the most suitable writer for my project." L'Etoile looked at Christian for a response, but Christian was dumbstruck.

"But, my plays, there's nothing bohemian about them! Not one has a happy ending!"

"I want more than a happy ending. I want happiness, but not just happiness. Life isn't so simple, and I want to show that. This won't be another one of your tragedies. There's more to life than tragedies. You've seen that. I want to show the pain and heartbreak that leads to happiness, and I don't want a fake, manufactured, version of it. I want loose ends. I don't want all the questions to be answered and boxed up. That isn't life and I want this production to be lifelike. Do you see? Is this something you can do? Is this something you _want _to do?" L'Etoile rose from his chair as he spoke, looking away from Christian, and around the room, as if he was speaking not just to the enthralled writer and the disinterested manager, but to the world.

Christian's mouth had dropped open as he watched the man speak. He had grossly underestimated the man, and now he was doubting that he had the breadth of talent to do what was required. Suddenly, Christian realized that for the first time in five years he wanted to do something other than become disgustingly inebriated or creatively bring about his own death.

L'Etoile stared at him, waiting, rather patiently for a response. "I'll do it. I want to do it." The words flew out of Christian's mouth so quickly and forcefully that Zidler sat up in his seat and stopped playing with his pocket watch to look at the writer.

"That's it? How did he convince you so quickly?" Zidler asked in shock.

"He was honest," Christian replied candidly.

L'Etoile smiled a genuine smile. "And I hope that you will be honest with me. I have impossibly high standards and I'm an absolute workaholic." His smile widened to a grin. "That might be a bit more honesty than you needed to hear," he mused.

"I think I can keep up with you," Christian replied, continually impressed with L'Etoile.

"Fantastique! Now, before we draw up a contract, I want to see some of your ideas, unmuddled by thoughts of a paycheck. Come back here, same time, tomorrow, with as many ideas as you can think of for the show. C'est possible?" Christian nodded, thoughts already running through his mind.

"That's what I like to see. You may go, Monsieur Christian." L'Etoile dismissed him formally, yet still warmly. Christian rose and nodded, and then showed himself out. He walked through the lobby with a bounce in his step and ideas churned in his head as he continued down the street. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Christian wondered what he had gotten himself into. That train of thought did not last for long, as he broke into a run towards his apartment to write down the flow of ideas that he had not felt in so long.


End file.
